


why not me.

by froggirl



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Angst, Comfort, F/M, Pining, Sad Minho, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-12 17:26:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29388390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/froggirl/pseuds/froggirl
Summary: minho and reader are there for each other. its not all that they need but it’s enough.
Relationships: Lee Minho | Lee Know/Reader
Kudos: 5





	why not me.

**Author's Note:**

> HIII its like 1am and i wrote this listening to washing machine heart on repeat and i cried writing this HA. HA. its not like i projected onto this at all or anything anyway enjoy lmao

“Dance with me”.   
You look at his out-turned hand. You wish you could jokingly reject. Push him away and force him to chase you, feel the thrill of having someone’s eyes on you. You wish it was about you and not about subduing the flame of aloneness. Wishes don’t come true so you take his hand.   
The songs slowly get slower. More intimate. Minho chose now to ask you to dance, because he craves that intimacy. You do too so you dance together. Together in loneliness, sharing the same feelings, surviving in the hopes of the same warmth touching your lives- a warmth neither of you can provide for the other. 

You know this dance will end in bed. Probably yours. The sex is okay but the both of you know its a cover for the touch you really want. At this point you’re more hugging than dancing, fingers interlinked. A feeling that’s far too familiar. Maybe that’s why every interaction comes with a guarantee of sex- it limits the relationship. You won’t get hurt that way. It’s okay. It’s enough anyway. 

You didn’t wear lipstick. 

You take the short walk home alone. Minho follows behind later, finishing his drink before leaving. You feel a little impatient. Whatever. He arrives quickly enough. 

When he kisses you, he’s gentle. Its nice but it lacks passion. Its nicer when he kisses your neck. He pulls your dress down and kisses your shoulders too. He touches your hair, either pushing it out the way or lacing his hands through it. This time when your lips meet he’s ravenous. It’s when he’s like this that you can throw caution to the wind. 

His hands are wrapped around your legs holding them open so he’s positioned between them. He pulls his mouth away from your chest, leaning into your lips. He’s hesitant. He’s hungry but not for you. You will just have to do. You don’t blame him because you feel the same. 

“Do you wish I was him?” You ask. You’re sighing. His rough kisses to your collarbone and his hands massaging your nipples is enough for you to get needy. He doesn’t answer.   
“It’s okay. I know you don’t want me. Fuck me like you’d fuck him.”   
Minho’s used to you talking like this. He knows it gets you off. It gets him off. Literally pretending its who he really wants. Taking it out on you because he’ll never get the real thing. He feels a slight guilt afterwards. He thinks that he’s using you. He is and you are using him so it’s okay.   
You don’t know about his guilt in the same way that he doesn’t know about your desperation. How you lay awake next to him as he sleeps and hopelessly pine for the ‘real thing’. How you know so deeply you will never be capable of it and still beg for it. 

You lie there and take him. He holds both of your hands and you moan out for him. He’s quieter but not silent. Sometimes he kisses you. Maybe to shut you up. Maybe so he can forget your face. You’re too far gone to care. It feels good. He sucks your tongue and licks at you almost aimlessly, but you can feel his pace quickening. You pull away a hand, reaching down to rub circles over your clit.   
“Don’t think about him, say my name Minho, say it when you come” you sound fucking erratic. His hips stutter into you and he says your name. Thickly and deeply and surrounded by curses. That was all you needed.   
You lie together afterwards. You trace the borders of his body with your fingers. He can feel your breath on his bare chest. He turns his head so that his tears don’t drip down his skin where you might feel them. You inhale and exhale through your nose so that he doesn’t feel how your breath quivers. So close together and so far apart. 

You wish he didn’t have to leave but you wake up on an empty mattress, a single cigarette butt in the ashtray on your nightstand.


End file.
